Footsteps
by TwistedGoth
Summary: Friendships happen by chance. A normal encounter in the city draws Ludwig into one of those dreamy, fast-moving life experiences that are usually found in the movies. Two brothers and lots of glamour and a chance to feel normal. But, just like the movies, sometimes things don't play out like they're supposed to. Devastating genetics sometimes come hidden in cheery packages. AU. FFI
1. Chapter 1

**A/N **: Oh my God, I might never forgive myself for writing this. I really don't know where it came from, except from my own struggle with insomnia lately, and let's face it : if you've never had insomnia, then you can't really understand just how horrible it really is. The mind is the worst thing to lose. So, for me, FFI is the absolute worst disease you could ever get _ever_.

**Warnings! **: AU. Human characters. Set in modern Italy. A study of the effects of **Fatal Familial Insomnia**, which affects mostly Italians, and how a simple genetic mutation can ruin an entire family. Language, character death, angst, angst, angst. To me just friendship, however (if you choose) could probably be interpreted as smidgeons of Italy x Germany and/or Romano x Germany. Did I mention angst? Okay, good.

For all the fluff in this fast-paced chapter, I hope I made it perfectly clear that this IS NOT A HAPPY STORY. Just makin' sure you know.

I would **LOVE** to hear from you when you're done, but I won't beg. XD

Good music to listen to for this : Youtube / watch?v=LTGE1pZMlQM (or this : watch?v=ZDpHzYum0PE (cello at the beginning just KILLS me XD))

* * *

**Footsteps**

Weird.

That's what people usually called him.

He was the 'weird' one, the quiet one who couldn't ever really make friends and keep them, the somewhat intimidating one who couldn't hold a candle to his outgoing charmer of a brother, the brooder that couldn't really function in a normal social setting.

He was used to that. It didn't really bother him so much, and he had pretty much resigned himself to being introduced as, 'and that's just Ludwig, he doesn't talk much'.

Well, it was true, so why get riled up about it?

Usually, his interactions with people ended after the handshake and a few exceedingly awkward exchanges. After that, the goodbye, and a look of relief as he was quickly left behind.

He was used to that, too.

And so it had surprised him when someone had finally shaken his hand and then continued to speak to him long after they should have been weirded out on that warm summer day by the sea.

It was nice here, at least.

He'd had a great time in Venice so far, sure, but by himself, and even though he was going to spend the next four years here in the respectable university, he hadn't really planned on making friends during his stay. Why bother? They'd get left behind anyway, and besides, this place was exciting enough on its own.

He was even starting to get a little bit of a tan. Just a little.

It had all started simply.

Just an accident.

He had been standing there at the corner, staring into a shop and contemplating his next move in the vast city as he inhaled the salty breeze, when he had been all but knocked over by someone walking far too quickly and too hard. A quick rebuttal of, 'look where you're goin', bastard,' had made him turn his head in annoyance.

Two men behind him, and even through his annoyance, he wasn't really surprised.

Not really.

He was used to getting bumped into and knocked over by bustling Italians, even after only a few months.

And he was used to getting vulgarities spat at him, too.

So he had waited, hands tucked in his pockets, merely glaring as one of the men spat out a string of curses and threw him a very dirty look. He stayed quiet, and waited for the storm to pass.

Nothing he hadn't really expected.

What had really surprised him was when the other man, looking a bit embarrassed, shoved the other off to the side none too gently and offered an apology.

Ludwig had stood there, silently, and finally nodded.

But they hadn't left, and the more amicable one, seeing his pale hair and paler eyes, had tried to make polite conversation and asked, eagerly, 'Hey, you American?'

He snorted, and shook his head.

Hardly.

'German,' he'd offered, testing out his still choppy Italian, and the man's smile never faltered. The other one had shifted his weight, a foul look on his face, but had stayed silent.

'Let me buy you a drink for my stupid brother.'

An irritated grunt.

After a moment's consideration, Ludwig had nodded his head.

Why not?

He wasn't busy. He didn't have anywhere to go. And it was rude to refuse a drink.

So, after a quick handshake, he had fallen into step with the two men, and walked down the street.

Simple.

It had all rolled on from there.

As they walked, passing through the congested streets of Venice under the bright sun, the friendlier one looked over at him, hands tucked in his pockets and white teeth gleaming against his bronzed skin as he smiled, and introduced himself quite casually as Feliciano.

'And that's just my brother, Lovino.'

Ludwig had nearly laughed then.

So, he wasn't the only person in the world, after all, to be introduced as, 'and that's just so and so'.

Well, that was a relief.

'So,' Feliciano had pressed, when he had remained unwilling to offer conversation, 'What's your name, stranger?'

'Ludwig.'

The more sour one sent him a narrow-eyed look and had promptly scoffed, 'What kinda name is that? Your parents come from the 1800s or somethin'?'

A very sharp rebuttal of, 'My parents are dead,' had ended that conversation as quickly as it had come, and the jerk called Lovino had pursed his lips and fallen abashedly silent.

'So are ours,' Feliciano said, in an effort to find common ground and pursue small talk, but Ludwig had only shrugged a shoulder, and left it at that.

Why talk? He was only in it for the free drink.

He wasn't used to the overly-vociferous ways of the Italians quite yet, so he let them do the talking and contented himself with sliding into the cool bar seat when he had been led inside of a little corner he had never noticed before. A dilapidated little place from the outside, but inside everything had been surprisingly vibrant.

Bright colors and plenty of alcohol.

Red barstools.

The promised drink had come in a flash, as Feliciano settled in beside of him and Lovino beside of him, and Ludwig had only intended to finish it off and then bid the two men farewell.

It hadn't happened quite as planned.

Because Feliciano prattled away, and when Ludwig had pushed his empty glass forward and made a movement to stand, Feliciano gave a bright smile and quickly ordered him another.

And, well...

Damn.

He was responsible and respectable and proud, in every sense, but what fool refused free drinks when they were all but being shoved down their throats? He wasn't really so good of a person that he was going to say, 'no, thank you.'

So, he had stayed, and drank, watching the brothers with a bit of curiosity and wondering if all Italians were really just kind of insane. They drank hard and crooned and prattled to each other like noisy pigeons, sometimes falling into a high-pitched argument before being quickly distracted by a pretty girl.

They didn't seem to mind that Ludwig was a complete stranger, acting in front of him as they no doubt acted in the comfort of their own home.

Ludwig, with nothing better to do and vaguely amused, sat there until the bright sun began to fade in the distance, and the drinks just kept coming.

And so did the conversation, and after building up a rather pleasant buzz, he found that he engaged with Feliciano a bit better, offering answers to questions and even inputting a little to the conversation.

Lovino, eyeing him a bit more detachedly, was quick to toss in mild jabs and words that were meant to rile him. They didn't, not really, and he merely tossed back his own.

And he discovered, as the sun faded behind the city, that it was as much fun to argue with Lovino as it was to speak to Feliciano.

Time passed and alcohol flowed.

Lovino had asked later, in a slurred voice, if it was 'true that all Germans are born with calendars and feather-dusters up their asses?'

Ludwig, having never been asked such a stupid question in his entire life, did something he had not done in a long, long time :

He threw back his head, and laughed.

And it had been a lot easier from there.

He stayed because he wanted to, and not just because of the free drinks.

That first night had just went on and on in bursts of laughter and never-ending conversation and strangely satisfying sniping with Lovino, and the next morning, he was so exhausted and so mellow that he did something he had _never _done before :

He stayed in bed, and skipped class.

And that night, after a whole day of smiling to himself and being in an uncharacteristically good mood, he found himself passing by the same shoddy little bar, just in case.

And, sure enough, there they had been. The two brothers, sitting together, nursing drinks and eyeballing passing girls just as they had the night before. Lovino had seen him first, and, after a strange moment of distasteful staring, had nudged his brother with an errant elbow. Feliciano had immediately invited him over.

And Ludwig had accepted.

He didn't really know why, but then again, he didn't really know why he had gone out to the bar in the first place.

Maybe he was homesick and lonely.

This time, he paid his own drinks, and the brothers teased and prattled with him just as they had before. He dared himself to consider labeling them with the word 'acquaintances.'

They would be the first here. And probably the only ones, too, because of his awkward social graces (or lack, thereof). And Feliciano even seemed pleased that they had crossed paths again, although Lovino's enthusiasm was considerably lacking, and he couldn't help but enjoy a moment in attention.

He was used to being alone.

The second night flew by as wonderfully as the first.

Feliciano asked him where he was staying, and phone numbers were exchanged.

'The next time,' Feliciano declared, merrily, 'we'll drink at my house! It's too expensive to go out every night, especially for you starving college students, eh? What d'ya say?'

Ludwig only smiled, and drawled, 'Sure, why not?'

He had spent the next day's classes with an unfocused mind, tapping his pencil mindlessly on the desk as he counted down the minutes.

It was strange to have something other than mounds of schoolwork to look forward to, although mounds of schoolwork was probably a little healthier for him than the obnoxious Italians.

Feliciano and Lovino.

New friends.

Well, that was a strange word!

Friends.

When the phone in his cramped little dorm had rang for the first time, he had been so nervous with adrenaline that he had almost missed the call all together, snatching it up at the very last second.

He was glad he had.

'Ludwig? That you? Hey, it's Feliciano, you wanna come over tonight? Meet me outside the bar at around six, and I'll show where I live! See you then! I hope you like grappa.'

The walk to the bar this time was weird, knowing that he would be going over to a stranger's house. Hell, he was twenty-two years old and he had never even spent the night with someone else before, not even in his childhood. A little embarrassing, but true.

His heart thudded the whole time.

Feliciano had been standing there, as promised, hands tucked in his pockets, shoulders loose and tank top fluttering in the sea breeze, his smile as bright as the sun, and when he had spotted Ludwig through the crowd, he waved him over. A quick greeting, and they were on their way.

He had been nervous and jittery.

Excited.

Just because he had never _had _any friends didn't mean he had never _wanted _any.

Leaving the congested downtown to travel down a little side street, the first sight of the nice house had been a bit overwhelming at first.

It wasn't a manor, by any extent, but to a college student who was stuffed inside a dorm room that could barely fit his long legs, the two-story house of weathered wood and quaint windows seemed pretty damn impressive. And the inside, like the bar, was far more impressive than the outside, and it became immediately apparent that the brothers had a flare for decorating.

Maybe they were guilty of over-decoration, but that was forgivable.

Paintings hung everywhere, and he had been all but blown away when, sitting at the table with the brothers and trying his first grappa, it had become known to him that it was Feliciano who had painted the great majority of them.

Conversation ensued.

'So,' he had begun, loosened by brandy, 'You're a painter? Bet you get a lot of commissions out here in the city, huh?'

Feliciano had smiled breezily.

'Most of the time! I like it, anyway. That's the important thing. So, what are you studying, exactly?'

'Engineering.'

Lovino had looked over at him then, a bit of interest upon his usually stern face.

'Cars?'

'Aeronautics.'

Feliciano had burst into laughter, and said, 'You're gonna build rocket-ships?'

Ludwig had laughed too.

'Well, that's the idea.'

Hours passed with plenty of brandy and no lack of conversation, and he realized that staying at someone else's place actually felt pretty satisfying.

He felt, for once, like he was a normal guy.

Oh, if only Gilbert could have seen him. He might have been proud.

It was nice to feel 'cool' and 'fun' instead of being the quiet, moping, intense 'nerd' (Gilbert's favorite way to describe him to his boisterous friends) that he usually played.

Feliciano didn't seem to care that he needed alcohol to finally open his mouth a little, and Lovino must not have been that intimidated by him, because he certainly had no end of combative statements and taunts.

He found that, every passing day, Italy was more and more to his liking.

He wasn't so homesick now.

He had friends now.

And as the first few months went by, every day was really just a new adventure.

He had never been so happy and relaxed in his entire life.

What had been a frightening notion, staying so far from home and by himself, had suddenly turned into the best vacation of his life. So great, in fact, that he had left his brother high and dry when school was out of session for the holidays and decided to just stay in Venice.

He was having a good time here, and Feliciano had offered him the spare room in the house. He accepted, even though Lovino had made a scene about it.

Just talk.

If Lovino had really had a serious problem with it, it would have been immediately obvious, and he probably would have had some bruises to show for it.

Lovino got over it after a few days.

Everything was good.

He had gotten to know them, really know them, and there weren't a lot of people that he really _knew_.

He had sat down on the staircase and watched with chin in palm as Feliciano created a new painting out of nowhere. He had looked on as Feliciano and Lovino got into real arguments, which ended with one or both of them in tears and sometimes with black eyes. He had listened to their life stories, their goals and dreams and hopes. He had lent ears to Feliciano when he needed to lighten his shoulders. He had dealt with the brunt of Lovino's wrath when he needed to let off some steam.

He had learned that Feliciano's happiness masked a dark guilt; it had been he who had been driving, at only sixteen and still learning, when the car had slipped off the road and then into another lane via overcorrection, resulting in the devastating wreck that had claimed his parents' lives.

He had learned that Lovino's great dream all of his life had been to join the Italian air force, and get up in the sky. But it hadn't happened, and, Ludwig had learned from a mournful Feliciano, he had flunked the psych evaluation needed to join any branch of military.

Feliciano had lost his self-worth.

Lovino had lost his wings.

But, for all their dysfunction and spats, they operated pretty well as a family, even a broken one, and even if they were the only ones left.

A grandfather, he had learned, the last member of the family, had succumbed a couple of years prior.

But they were doing alright.

Feliciano painted and Lovino worked in the city as a mechanic, but they only worked to have something to do; they did not want for money. Their grandfather had left quite an inheritance.

Ludwig learned a little more about them every day.

Their house was far more welcoming than the dorm.

He liked being around them.

He was _happy_.

And that wasn't something he was used to feeling.

To think it had started so simply.

He was happy here.

Days faded.

Christmas came quickly.

He didn't really even consider returning home. Not for a while, anyway, and certainly not until school was finished all together. Gilbert had tons of friends. He wouldn't miss a few holidays with his little brother. They'd already had many together, and they'd have many more. For now, why not hang around in Italy and continue to explore this newfound life of excitement?

They did something new every day, it seemed.

Theatres. Bars. Museums. Galleries. Parks. Auto shows. Parades.

He had never gone _out _so much in his life.

It was intoxicating.

He was glad he had stayed.

He had tried to offer rent, of course, but Feliciano had refused. So, in light of crashing for free, he tried to be a good friend, as much as he really knew how to be.

He must have been doing alright.

They hadn't kicked him out yet.

And now, his first semester of school complete and free for a few weeks, he was content to watch the snow and rain fall and observe Feliciano painting.

The days until Christmas were zooming.

It was hard not to just smile all the time, surrounded everywhere by blinking lights and people singing and cheery television shows and happy tunes.

Feliciano noticed his good mood, like he always did.

"You've been smiling a lot lately," came the lazy drawl, and when Ludwig looked away from the window, it was to see Feliciano poking his head out from behind a canvas and peering at him.

He only tilted his head, and shrugged a shoulder.

Feliciano raised a brow, and then he smiled, too.

"I'm going to paint you soon, Ludovico. I like it when you smile. You're so tall, and that nose of yours reminds of those old Greek statues. You must have some royalty somewhere in your bloodline. You hold yourself so well."

A thoughtful snort.

"I like that about you. You're fun to watch. Even though you're so quiet."

Ludwig only crossed his arms in a rush of self-consciousness, and knew his cheeks had tinted.

"Sorry," he said, a bit dryly. "I don't think I'll make a good model."

"Nonsense!" Feliciano chided, without taking his eyes from the gliding of his paintbrush, "Nonsense, I say. You watch and see, I'll get you down on the couch in the end. I swear, sometimes you and Lovino sound just alike."

"No we _don't_!" came a rough cry from the kitchen, and Feliciano only pursed his lips, and rolled his eyes.

Ludwig turned his gaze back to the window, and by now the smile was back.

He was happy here.

How strange, that such a random encounter could lead up to such a great friendship.

He considered them friends.

Even coarse, abrasive Lovino.

Strange, how he could have taken to these two men so quickly when it had been _years _before he had finally gathered up the courage just to tell one of Gilbert's pretty classmates 'hello'.

Well, they certainly had a charm about them, one that even he wasn't immune to.

Hours later, Feliciano put down his brush, and tilted his head left and right.

"There we go," finally came the approval, and with a sigh, he lifted hazel eyes up to Ludwig and said, "You wanna go out to the markets tonight and look around? Probably not as good as your markets back home, but, hey—we can play in the snow on the way."

Ludwig laughed.

"Well, alright. I'll take a look around your markets."

Standing, Feliciano turned his head to the kitchen and cried, to the out-of-sight Lovino, "Hey, are you comin' or not?"

A shuffle of clothes.

Lovino poked his head out, tilting back in his chair, and sent them an irritated look, as though weighing his options. Finally, his chair fell back on the floor, and he stood, coming into the foyer and grabbing up his coat, grunting, "Why not?"

Feliciano broke into a relieved smile.

Sometimes, Ludwig had observed, it was hard to get Lovino to engage in normal activities.

Lovino always just looked..._sad_.

Defeated, almost.

In a constant depression.

No doubt there were many things wrong up in his head, and sometimes he took out his frustrations and hurt on Feliciano, and Ludwig had heard him proclaim at least twice in a rage, when he felt Feliciano was being condescending or overbearing, 'well, at least I didn't kill mom and dad!'

Awful words.

Feliciano always folded first, hurt and looking horrified and so _guilty_, and even though Ludwig thought it a low, dirty blow, he stayed far back, and never opened his mouth.

Not his fight, and Lovino was not as well-adjusted as Feliciano.

Ganging up on him would have damaged Lovino a thousand times more than it would have helped Feliciano.

He had sense enough to know when to keep quiet.

He wasn't too worried about it, in all honesty; the brothers fought all the time, but they always seemed to put it behind them before any real damage came.

And Lovino, for all the tough talk and proclaimed dislike for his younger brother, was always quick to leap up to defend him on the streets, using his big mouth for all it was worth.

But Ludwig somehow sensed that Lovino's bark was far worse than his bite.

So seeing Lovino get up and tag along without any snide comments was welcome.

Together, they trudged out into the sludgy mixture of snow and rain and sleet, and even though the air was damp and chilly, the mood was not.

Ludwig may as well have been on the beach in the summer for the way he felt.

Cold weather didn't bother him.

Rain didn't bother him, either.

Maybe Feliciano was shivering a bit and maybe Lovino looked a little cranky, but for the damp conditions the chatter was pretty amicable.

Feliciano always strove to keep the mood going, and his cheeriness was pretty infectious.

Even Lovino wasn't griping now.

For once.

The market came and went in a great bustle of people and lights and shiny gifts, more wine than he had ever seen in his life, and Feliciano wound up buying so much stuff that Ludwig, in the end, became nothing more than a rather tall and rather resigned beast of burden, laden down with shopping bags and shiny papers and, to add insult to injury, Lovino grabbed a handful of glitter snow from one of the displays and rubbed in none-too-gently into his hair.

Ludwig shot him a scorching look, as Lovino observed his work and began to laugh, the glitter catching the light and making Ludwig look, for all of him, like a blond Christmas tree.

Now he just needed a fuckin' star on the top of his head.

"Look," Lovino chortled to Feliciano, "How shiny!" Turning a sly eye to Ludwig, he added, tauntingly, "Are you sure your name isn't Rudolf?"

Furrowing his brow and shaking his head as best he could to clear it of the glitter without dropping the bags, he had really no choice but to go along with them and deal with their endless teasing.

...eh.

It wasn't so bad.

Gilbert was worse.

And it was hard to stay in a bad mood inside of a Christmas market, and especially in Venice, and even more so with new friends.

He couldn't really stay mad much, anyway.

A curse of his.

By the time they were trudging home again, close to midnight, he was quite content, even though his arms and back ached from the strain of being loaded down.

Besides, the wine that Feliciano had bought was already calling his name.

It would be wise to keep cool if he was to have a chance at it before the two annihilated it.

As it happened, there was plenty to go around, and the rest of the morning hours ticked by in a warm burst of alcohol and a strange fluttering in his stomach that he could only attribute to exhilaration, at being with someone and being _happy _about it.

Maybe when school was over with, he would try to find a way to hang around in Italy for a while.

This place (and the brothers) was really growing on him.

Four bottles of wine later, Lovino smiling sloppily as he rocked back and forth in his chair and Feliciano laughing away at who knew what, Ludwig finally decided that it was safer to relocate into the living room, where he would at least have the couch available for when he decided to pass out.

They staggered through the kitchen threshold, and when Lovino decided that he wanted the couch and Ludwig refused to give it up, it wound up being a rather stubborn contest between them as neither one was willing to relent.

A compromise was reached when it was discovered that, with a little squirming and manipulation, they managed to both fit, as long as legs overlapped.

Feliciano nestled himself quite happily on the floor in front of them, crossing his legs and gripping the last glass of wine that remained in his hand, tottering back and forth as he watched the television.

Lovino fell first, the alcohol and blinking Christmas lights and sounds of the television just too much.

The cold air made it hard to stay awake.

Or maybe that was the wine.

Ludwig tried to last a little longer, because he was enjoying this night and falling asleep would mean that it would come to an end.

He hated when good things came to end.

They always did, it seemed.

He didn't make it for too much longer.

Sleep was just too tempting.

Lying back as best he could for Lovino's intrusive legs, he heaved a great sigh, and closed his eyes.

Time slipped away.

Feliciano lied down on the floor below, and fell asleep.

And as the Christmas lights blinked slowly, bathing the room in fading glows of red and green in languid intervals, he lied there on the couch, drifting in and out of consciousness, and even through the intoxication, it struck him.

He felt at _home_.

Moonlight streamed in through the curtains.

Hopelessly comfortable, with Lovino sprawled out beside of him, legs tangled within his own and snoring to high heaven, he looked over, his head back on the cushion of the sofa, vision bleary as he faded, and he found that his arm, hanging off the edge and onto the floor, was atop Feliciano's side.

The surreal feeling of warmth and affection was new.

Feliciano's deep breathing was as comforting as the glow of the Christmas lights rising and falling.

He might not ever get sick of feeling like this.

It was nice.

The battle with sleep was finally lost, morning came, the next few days passed in a similar fashion, and he spent Christmas morning chatting on the phone with talkative Gilbert, who only chided him a _little_ for not coming home. His conversation had been interrupted when Feliciano had finally come crawling out of his bedroom, hair sticking out in every direction and completely shirtless, as confident in his looks apparently as he was his powers of persuasion.

Rubbing bleary eyes, he had come forward, stumbling a bit, and promptly uttered a, 'Merry Christmas,' before leaning down above sitting Ludwig and kissing him upon either cheek.

The surprise had quickly caused him to drop the phone, but it passed as quickly as it had come, and he was steadily becoming used to the ways of the Italians. It was a normal thing, he supposed, to greet someone like that on an important occasion. And when Lovino came out, he and Feliciano kissed each others' cheeks without a thought.

Lovino glanced at him, shifted, and then walked on.

Well, looked like he wasn't getting any cheek-kisses from Lovino.

He did, however, get a grumbled, 'Merry Christmas,' at the last second.

A friend, too.

That made him smile.

He liked being considered someone's 'friend'.

But he didn't tell Gilbert who he was with or that he had actually made a friend or two, if only because some part of him thought Gilbert might laugh at him for being so excited about it.

For Gilbert, friends came easy.

He wouldn't understand how big of a deal it was for Ludwig.

So, he stayed silent, and finally hung up the phone.

Christmas was exactly how he imagined Christmas would be around these two : fast-paced, glitzy, with lots of food and lots of wine and lots of presents.

Come to think, that was actually how most of the time with them was.

They couldn't ever really seem to sit still for too long when they were awake, and Ludwig found himself being dragged out for one reason or another, and he found himself complying quite easily, because in all honesty, he kind of liked being dragged around everywhere.

He felt like he was actually living for once.

They never let him pass a dull moment.

Every day that passed was something new.

The New Year rang in with a ruckus in the city.

For once, they all stayed home.

A clear winter night, when there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and only the burst of fireworks broke the silence. Lovino had retired long before, and Feliciano sat out the porch, legs propped up on the railing and arms crossed behind his head, a bottle of wine down at his side as he watched the stars above the haze of the city, bundled up in very thick clothes.

Ludwig joined him, a silent greeting passing between them as he sat down and threw his boots up next to Feliciano's, and perhaps they looked a little strange there together. Ludwig, blond hair white in the moonlight and eyes silver, tall and lean and as pale as the snow, calm and cool and serious, sitting next to Feliciano, auburn hair lit up copper and eyes golden, shorter and darker and with large hands and swift fingers, happy and good-natured and easily riled up.

Ludwig was surprised that they got along so well most of the time.

A little more friction came with Lovino, but nothing that wasn't tolerated.

Lovino, for all of his talk, wasn't really so bad, and it was good to have someone to snit with so that he didn't die of sugar-shock from everything going so smoothly with Feliciano.

Rough edges could sometimes prove useful.

Lovino was as much of a friend as Feliciano was, if just in a different way, and even if Lovino would drop dead before he said it himself.

Looking over through calm, lidded eyes, Feliciano lifted his chin to acknowledge the fireworks, and said, simply, "Well, happy New Year. Think it'll be a good one?"

Ludwig repositioned his feet, and gave a short, deep, 'hm' in contemplation.

Feliciano waited patiently, looking subdued and a bit sleepy.

Finally, Ludwig came back with, "Well, I just hope it's as good as this year's been."

Feliciano laughed.

"Glass half empty? You've got a weird sense of optimism."

"So I hear."

Leering, Feliciano turned his eyes back up to the sky, and they fell silent, bathed in the light of stars and fireworks as the minutes flew by.

They didn't really need to talk.

Just sitting together was enough.

And, luckily, the New Year started off as well as he could have ever hoped for.

Because not a thing changed, and that was exactly how he wanted it.

He didn't want a thing to change.

Why mess with a good thing?

He spoke to Gilbert less frequently on the phone, and Gilbert didn't really call him up too often. He was preoccupied by friends and outings, and for once, Ludwig was too.

His time was consumed by Feliciano and Lovino.

Even so, he made a firm reminder to himself that, no matter how fun they were, and how much he liked them, they weren't worth flunking school after so much work, so he was forced to lay off the alcohol a bit and bring out the books when he sat on the porch with Feliciano or at the table with Lovino.

He found a good balance.

Everything was going great.

Another six months flew by.

It had been a year now, since Ludwig had by chance met the brothers in the street.

A whirlwind year of excitement and friendship and pretty much everything he could have ever hoped for.

He felt his age.

Summer came. School was out again.

He didn't go home.

Gilbert said, 'Oh well! See you next time. I bet you're gettin' _dark_! Send me some pictures.'

He took pictures, but didn't send them. It kept slipping his mind.

He was preoccupied.

Lovino finally began to drop his guard, just a little, and when the second Christmas came rolling around months later, he had, in a moment of being caught off-guard, actually smiled at Ludwig without thinking about it.

Feliciano had beamed the whole night.

And so had Ludwig.

Everything was going so well.

By then, he couldn't really have imagined up and leaving them.

He was too attached.

Time with them was vivid, and what he felt with them was what he imagined that Gilbert felt all the time.

He liked it.

He felt at home with them.

Could things have really gotten any better? It didn't seem so.

Maybe that was the problem.

It had been nearly two years of almost _too_-good contentment when it had happened.

Like everything else, it had started so simply.

Who could have ever known?

A simple thing had started a horrible course that spiraled downward with the speed of train and with as much ferocity.

A simple thing.

So simple.

One night, Feliciano couldn't sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Footsteps**

Every day, Feliciano asked the same question.

'Can I paint you today?'

And every day, Ludwig gave the same answer.

'Not today.'

It had become more of a teasing game than an actual request, and Ludwig suspected that Feliciano only asked him to see him turn up his eyes in exasperation and shake his head. But even so, Ludwig always responded, if only because it made Feliciano happy.

Hell, maybe one of these days he'd actually say 'yes'.

Maybe not.

Feliciano knew exactly what he was always going to say, and would look up from the chair where he sat before the canvas, sending Ludwig a cool, coy look, smiling airily, and only say, 'That's a shame!'

Ludwig only snorted.

In the absence of a modeling Ludwig, Feliciano would simply bring up his brush, and paint whatever came to mind. There was never any lack of creativity, it seemed, and, even after two years, Ludwig was sometimes still flabbergasted at Feliciano's hand.

The brush glided without effort over the canvas.

Feliciano could create whatever he felt like. Drift away wherever he wanted. Spain, Africa, China, Moscow, back in time, wherever he wanted. It was a little daunting to consider how Feliciano's hand would cast _him_, if he ever got his way, whether or not Feliciano would be able to spot some flaw or weakness as his eagle eyes flitted up above the canvas.

Vanity and self-consciousness were the driving factors in his continual refusal.

Lovino had teased that if Feliciano _really _wanted to paint Ludwig, all he had to do was get him drunk under the table and then speed-paint before he passed out because 'that's the only way you're gonna see the real son of a bitch anyway'.

Well, maybe that was true.

He'd heard a few stories about himself from the brothers about when he was intoxicated.

Not that he necessarily believed all of them.

He was pretty sure (even though he couldn't remember) that he hadn't burst into tears just because he hadn't been able to locate the chain-lock on the door to let Feliciano inside when the happy-footed artist had returned at midnight from the city.

Yeah...

That was probably an exaggeration.

Oh God, he _hoped _it was an exaggeration.

Anyway, it didn't really matter so much.

The important things were the things you could remember, and Ludwig was fairly certain that he would never forget the look of concentration upon Feliciano's face whenever he painted.

Absorbed completely in his creation.

A look that was easy to become fond of.

A look that could be quite easily missed.

But never forgotten.

It had been a hot, muggy night in late June when the whole damn thing had started.

Too miserable and sticky and flushed to be comfortable enough to even sit in close proximity to each other, let alone drink, Lovino and Ludwig had sat as far apart on the couch as possible, surfing through static channels and bitching at each other as Feliciano, chiding them and trying to play both sides, created a new masterpiece across the room.

Shirt unbuttoned and fanning himself with a weary hand, Ludwig had finally tossed the remote into Lovino's lap in defeat, too hot to think and far too irritable to care about what drivel was on the television.

After a few minutes, Lovino concurred.

Only Feliciano seemed unfazed, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow as he had continued to paint away, lost in his own little world.

An hour or so ticked by before Lovino had grumbled a farewell and trudged up the stairs, peeling his shirt up from his damp skin and griping, and Ludwig hadn't lasted much longer.

Pulling himself to his feet, he drew his arms up over his head to stretch and had merely said, 'I'm goin' to sleep.'

Feliciano had looked up, and smiled.

'See you in the morning,' came the response, and with that, Feliciano had carried on with his painting.

The night had passed slowly in a humid, sweaty lurch.

When morning broke cool, Ludwig was relieved.

With a sigh, he pulled himself out of bed, stepping out into the hall, and when he passed into the kitchen, he froze still in a moment of complete astonishment.

Feliciano sat there, coffee in hand and humming to himself as he tinkered with the little radio on the table.

Ludwig came forward in a sleepy daze, and when Feliciano looked up at him and smiled a bit wearily, he asked in disbelief, "You're up before me, huh?"

"I'm _still _up!" Feliciano corrected, and despite looking a bit pale, the lack of sleep had not dampened his mood. "I was on a roll last night! I got two new ones done. I was so into it I didn't even get sleepy."

Sitting down with his own mug, Ludwig observed, "It'll catch up to you around noon. Just wait."

Feliciano merely waved a nonchalant hand in the air and said, quite primly, "I usually go back to sleep at noon, anyway."

Ludwig chortled, and, as he and Feliciano prattled over breakfast, the morning went on smoothly.

Ludwig was almost proud, in some way, that Feliciano had been up and about before him.

He'd never thought he'd see the day.

Lovino came crawling downstairs sometime later, and when he saw Feliciano sitting there, wide awake and obviously having been that way for quite some time, the look on his face had been so stunned that Ludwig had promptly spit coffee onto the table in a very undignified manner.

Feliciano's howling laughter was only intensified when Lovino slapped him across the back of the head.

A normal occurrence on another normal day.

It was a little out of the ordinary not to have Feliciano turning to look at each of them in turn as he recalled in very vivid detail every dream he'd had the night before, but Ludwig and Lovino were surely in agreement that it was a little nice to have one morning without it.

Just a little.

Lovino went out to work, Feliciano wandered into the living room, and Ludwig cleaned up the plates and cups from the table and set to washing them.

When he looked up again, the clock was at noon.

The house was quiet.

Feliciano had probably passed out on the couch in the warm weather.

And so it surprised him, when he rubbed his hands dry on a cloth and stepped out, that Feliciano was up on a chair, rearranging paintings on the wall.

Ludwig, smiling, teased, "I thought you'd've gone to sleep by now."

Feliciano looked over his shoulder, and gave a short laugh. "Well, I'm not really tired, and I've been meaning to do this for a while."

He hopped down, after making sure that one was just how he wanted it, and placed his hands on his hips.

"Do you wanna go to the beach?"

"Sure."

As they grabbed up towels and roamed shirtless through the Venice streets, choked with tourists, Ludwig realized that he liked it when Feliciano didn't sleep so damn much. More opportunities to go out and take in sights, instead of just sitting at home.

At the beach, Feliciano didn't swim, throwing down his towel and collapsing on the sand, closing his eyes as he basked in the sun. Ludwig left him to sleep there, in favor of the water, and when the sun was lower and his shoulders were red and burnt from the sun, he came back to the shore to see Feliciano lying in the same spot.

Nudging the lightly dozing Italian's side with his toes, Ludwig watched as Feliciano opened weary eyes and looked blearily up at him, and Ludwig did not miss the quick passing of irritation across his face.

"Sorry," he was quick to put out, "Come on. You can sleep at home."

Feliciano pulled himself to his feet, tossed his towel over his shoulder, and trudged along silently.

Ludwig revised his opinion that he liked Feliciano awake more often.

It wasn't quite the same when he was tired and a bit cranky.

When they crossed into the house and out of the sun, Feliciano turned to look at him and said, "I'm goin' to sleep. Don't let Lovino make dinner. He uses way too many onions."

Ludwig smiled, and only said, "Sure," as he shooed Feliciano off.

Tomorrow, after a long sleep, everything would be back to normal.

So, he and Lovino had spent the rest of the night by themselves, arguing quietly in the kitchen as they fought for possession of the stove, and when they sat down later on the couch to argue over possession of the television, Ludwig thought he heard, over Lovino's loud mouth, the creaking of floorboards from down the hall.

Footsteps.

He brushed it off as Feliciano getting up for a glass of water or to go to the bathroom, and when he turned his attention back to Lovino, he was so absorbed in his friendly argument that he didn't really notice that Feliciano never actually came out of his room.

The next morning, when he woke up at the break of dawn, another shock.

Feliciano was sitting in the kitchen, up again before him.

No coffee this time. Feliciano was drinking wine.

Laughing a bit throatily, Ludwig came in, and said, "Is this gonna turn into a habit?"

Feliciano snorted, and rubbed at his eyes as he sent Ludwig a pale smile.

"Well," came the scratchy response, "Maybe you're startin' to rub off on me."

When Ludwig sat down and saw him, really saw him, the laughter died down a little.

Just a little.

Pale and looking exhausted and a bit dazed, the dark circles under his eyes visible even from a distance, it was quite obvious that Feliciano hadn't slept the night before, either, despite retreating into his bedroom long before the sun had set.

Ludwig recalled the sound of footsteps.

"Can't sleep?" he asked, a bit more casually than he meant to, and Feliciano shrugged a shoulder.

"Not really." He took a swig of his wine, and tilted his head, eyes a bit distant in weariness. "I've been planning this big new project—a mural for that big church down the street—and I've just been thinking so much about it lately. I'm kinda worried about how it's gonna turn out. I guess I'm thinkin' _too_ much about it. I just can't seem to get to sleep."

Ludwig observed the bottle of wine, and raised a brow.

"Well, just keep drinkin' that. It'll knock you out."

Feliciano sent him a humorless, rather dry smile.

"That's the idea."

Ludwig snorted, and, even though Feliciano looked pretty bad, he wasn't worried.

Sometimes people just couldn't sleep.

He'd had insomnia before, when school had been more stressful than usual. And if Feliciano was really as worried and nervous about his project as he declared, then it wasn't really surprising that he couldn't sleep well.

It would run its course in a few days.

The time passed almost as normally as it always did, if only a bit more quietly for Feliciano's weariness.

The third morning, he was up again, this time in the living room, stifling yawns and sitting before a canvas, sketching with a pencil and a bit slumped.

Small talk.

Ludwig teased him a little, for looking like a zombie.

Lovino was quick to point out that Feliciano would be able to sleep a little better if Ludwig didn't snore.

Life as normal.

The fourth morning, Feliciano was up again.

He looked a bit worse every day.

Sleep wouldn't seem to come for him, and when it did, it wasn't for long.

But Feliciano, brimming with ideas and creativity and always _thinking_, wasn't really concerned about it. And neither was Ludwig; after all, an active brain sometimes meant little sleep.

An artist's curse.

It would pass before long.

For now, even though he was a bit weary and a little irritable, Feliciano still smiled, and carried on with daily life without great event.

He still sat up with Ludwig and Lovino on the couch at night and chatted away, even if his voice was a little scratchy and sometimes he mixed up words and clipped off a few consonants.

Sleep would come soon, and if not, no big deal.

A trip to the doctor would fix that with pills.

Ludwig was thoroughly unconcerned, and still smiled as they sat at the table in the evenings and challenged each other in drinking games. Feliciano drank as much as he always had, and Lovino didn't really seemed fazed by his brother's under-eye circles, focusing his attention on out-drinking Ludwig.

It didn't really occur to either of them, as they sniped non-aggressively and put back glass after glass, shoving each other gently as intoxication took hold, that no matter how much Feliciano drank, he never seemed to get drowsy.

And when Ludwig and Lovino were lying in a heap on the couch, still snitting as they drifted into unconsciousness, Feliciano sat cross-legged on the floor, holding a bottle of wine in his hand and staring off into the television with fixed eyes.

He didn't move.

When dawn broke and Ludwig woke up, untangling his legs from Lovino's as the nausea of hangover came gushing up, he saw (as he rushed to the bathroom) that Feliciano was standing off in the threshold of the kitchen, pacing back and forth and murmuring to himself and absolutely wide-awake.

Two empty wine bottles were on the carpet.

His nonchalant attitude became a bit more concerned, and he suggested, for the first time, that Feliciano go see a doctor.

Feliciano waved him off, looking like he'd crawled through hell, and only said, crossly, "It'll go away on its own."

Ludwig only 'hm'd, and let him be, as he stared vacantly into his canvas and tapped his foot.

Two weeks came and went.

Ludwig woke up one day, and realized that it had been many days since Feliciano had asked to paint him.

Two weeks without Feliciano relaying his dreams to them over coffee.

Because it had been two weeks since Feliciano had _had_ any.

One afternoon, as Feliciano held the palette in his hand and painted away, Lovino came wandering into the kitchen where Ludwig sat, and sent him a strange look. Ludwig lifted his chin, set down the paper, and asked, "What?"

Lovino hesitated for a second, shifting uneasily, and then said, very lowly and quietly, more of a whisper, "Go look at what he's painting."

Ludwig, curious, stood up, and passed quite casually through the foyer, pretending to retrieve something as he walked behind Feliciano.

His stealth was unnecessary.

Feliciano didn't really even seem to hear him.

And when he saw the canvas, he couldn't help but tilt his head and furrow his brow.

Feliciano's style had always been bright and vivid, a stickler for tiny details and grand buildings and a love for flare, using cheerful colors and capturing victorious, proud moments in time as though he were looking right at them.

So to see this canvas, slathered in grey and black and red and looking a bit sinister, was a little unnerving.

Looking over to see Lovino standing in the kitchen frame, arms crossed above his chest, Ludwig cleared his throat and asked, amicably, "What are ya painting?"

Feliciano straightened up, and, without looking back, merely said, "Nero's Rome on fire."

"Oh."

Feliciano's brush carried on in strange, lurching motions, creating flames and smoke, and he said, voice distant and far-off, "You know, they say Nero played the lyre when Rome was burning. That's not true. But everyone thinks that he started it and left, coming back later to play hero. Of course, he built a new palace in a clearing created by the fire. Grandpa was a historian, did I tell you?"

Lovino shifted again, looking a little irritated at the mention of their grandfather.

Ludwig, trying to make light of the morbid painting, said, as Feliciano set a fleeing Roman's robe on fire and struck another one down, "Well, I guess you learn something new every day."

Feliciano stayed silent.

Ludwig and Lovino shared a look, and finally retreated, leaving Feliciano to his work.

Lovino muttered, "I hope that's not what he's gonna paint inside the church."

Ludwig only shook his head.

Some days passed.

The paintings became strange.

Mottled. Unclear. Unfocused.

Dark.

Feliciano didn't really talk so much now, and usually just stared off into space, breathing shallowly and always, _always_, his foot was tapping. He was clumsier now than ever before, and frequently dropped plates and glasses when he held them and sometimes tripping over his own feet.

The concern grew.

Ludwig, feeling a bit uncomfortable and finally starting to really _worry_, finally sat down next to Feliciano on the couch one day, and said, in an effort to bring some kind of vibrancy back to his exhausted friend, "Hey, if you still want to paint me...here I am."

Feliciano, one large hand gripping a fistful of his hair, looked over blearily, and tried to smile.

His foot tapped the floor.

"You mean it?"

Ludwig nodded.

And he would regret it.

A few minutes of shuffling later, as Feliciano retrieved his supplies and as Ludwig sat on the couch in mortification and awaited what was surely to be a very humiliating experience, and then the canvas was set up, and Feliciano was almost smiling.

A brightness in his face that had been lacking.

That was worth the embarrassment.

Ludwig waited, wringing his hands in his lap nervously and feeling vulnerable.

Nothing seemed to happen.

A second of anxious shifting.

He waited.

But Feliciano just sat there, brush in hand, and the look on his face was strange as he glanced up in frequent intervals from behind the canvas, squinting as though struggling to focus and shifting back and forth.

Shaking his head as though to clear it, Feliciano finally brought up the brush, and set to work.

"Sit still," he said, and Ludwig obeyed.

A few minutes later, the brush fell still again, and Feliciano's brow was furrowed as he glanced up at Ludwig, looking a bit frustrated, as though having some difficulties.

Ludwig didn't move.

Moments of the brush across the canvas, and then another pause.

The look of concentration that Ludwig was used to seeing was not there.

Just frustration, and a little helplessness.

Feliciano shook his head again, muttering to himself under his breath, and tried to carry on.

It didn't last for long.

Finally, Ludwig asked, tentatively, "What's wrong?"

No answer.

Feliciano's face fell.

So did the brush.

And then, burying his face in his hands as the brush rolled across the floor, he burst into tears.

For a second, Ludwig sat still.

The feeling of helplessness was horrible.

He didn't know what to _do_.

It was then, seeing Feliciano stifling sobs of frustration within his hands, that Ludwig had decided, with Lovino's backup, that Feliciano was going to the doctor, whether he liked it or not.

But, like so much else in life, that hadn't really turned out quite like he had expected.

He remembered more clearly than he would have liked standing there in the hospital another two weeks later, Lovino at his side, after the sleeping pills the town doctor had prescribed had had absolutely no effect, and Feliciano lying down in the bed, staring up at the ceiling and trying to play off their worry with calm words as they waited for results.

He remembered, too, his weak laughter dying down and Lovino's smile fading when the doctor came back in, shuffling his feet and brow stern behind his glasses.

He remembered the feeling of lead sliding down into his stomach.

He remembered the way Lovino's smile had come back up, an attempt at appearing unfazed.

He remembered the way the doctor's eyes had avoided meeting Feliciano's dull, exhausted gaze.

And he would always remember the first time he had heard that name uttered.

He remembered the doctor standing there for a moment, hands straightening down his coat and clearing his throat, and then finally saying, in a low voice, "Well, we've finished the tests."

A long pause.

The doctor turned to Feliciano, and, maybe delaying the inevitable, asked, "Has this happened to anyone in your family before? Not being able to sleep?"

Feliciano hesitated, gathering his muddled thoughts, and began, slowly, "Before my grandpa died, he didn't really sleep much."

"I see," the doctor said. "How long did that go on?"

Feliciano answered, "I don't know. I only knew about it a few months before he died."

"Grandpa wasn't sick," Lovino piped up from the corner, agitated and looking a little hostile. "He died because he was old. He didn't get sick."

Feliciano opened his mouth, and fell silent.

More silence.

And then, finally, the doctor's hands fell down at his sides, and he said, "Well, I don't really know how to... We've figured out what's wrong with you, and why the pills don't work."

Another strange pause, and Ludwig shifted, anxiously.

"It's a hereditary genetic condition called Fatal Familial Insomnia."

The words had been pronounced very slowly and very sternly, as thought the doctor were trying to tell them just through the name what was going to happen.

And Ludwig didn't really need to _ask _what would happen.

The outcome was right in the name of the affliction.

Fatal Familial Insomnia.

Fatal.

Wait—that didn't make sense!

It didn't really click.

Maybe his mind was just refusing to connect the dots and paint the picture.

Ha!

Feliciano was so _young_—they were _all _so young—and young men didn't just die.

Not just like _that_.

It didn't happen.

That was stupid! Feliciano just had some insomnia. That was all.

Just a little insomnia.

Who died from not being able to sleep?

With a very dry throat, he stood there in the corner, arms crossed above his chest, and asked, weakly, "So—so what now? I mean, are you going to give him some stronger pills or something?"

Lovino nodded his head in detached, nearly dazed agreement.

He wasn't smiling anymore.

But as Feliciano stared up at the doctor with the weariest eyes he'd ever seen, Ludwig's hope was dashed as quickly as it had come.

A headshake.

"Well, I'll give him some, of course, but they won't work like you're thinking they will." The doctor sent Ludwig a look of regret, fingers straightening his coat compulsively as he added, "The body might appear to be asleep, but the brain just keeps on firing. It won't ever shut down. There's nothing to stop it. The brain doesn't appear to be able to go into hibernation, no matter what. We could induce a chemical coma, and it wouldn't help. It won't sleep. We still...don't know much about this. Once the pills don't work, we'll stop them—there's evidence that they actually speed up the progress of the disease."

The progress.

What was the _progress_?

He was afraid to know.

But he had stood there stark still nonetheless, listening dutifully as the doctor explained in rather grim detail the four _stages_, as he called them, of the condition.

Stage one : persistent insomnia, which was where Feliciano sat now.

Stage two : hallucinations and panic attacks from lack of sleep.

Stage three : deterioration and drastic weight loss.

Stage four : dementia, followed by death.

Feliciano seemed to take the doctor's words in relatively good stride, but then again, maybe he was just too fuckin' _tired _to really even comprehend what was being said.

Lovino had turned away, staring off out the window.

Ludwig felt numb.

This didn't make sense.

It wasn't _right_.

Couldn't be. There was no way.

Too dumb and dazed to really let it sink in, Ludwig had only grabbed Feliciano's arm in a firm grip the next day when he was discharged and sent home, and the journey back had been crushingly silent. Ludwig found no words and Lovino just stared out the window of the car, and Feliciano, who probably should have been the worst off, just glanced up at them every so often, and tried to smile.

Days passed.

Ludwig sat at the computer for hours on end, searching compulsively for any more information about this mistake of a diagnosis.

Had to be a mistake.

But the more he found, the more the pieces started to fall into place.

He refused to finish the puzzle. He couldn't bring himself to admit it.

Feliciano went to the doctor every two weeks, just to check in and monitor his blood pressure and check his pupils. He failed the reflex examinations and simple questions.

The denial was obvious.

All of them.

Feliciano played it off, saying no matter what that there was always a little bit of hope, even if the doctor never smiled, and that his failing the exams didn't mean he was sliding down; he'd always been 'a little ditzy, remember?'

Lovino refused to accept the diagnosis, and when Feliciano would mention their grandfather and the similarities in the last months of his life, he was quick to shoot any and all connections down and berate his brother for being an impressionable idiot.

'Grandpa died because he was old,' was the constant reminder, and Feliciano would only shake his head.

'He was _sick_,' came the response, and Lovino, stressed and unwilling to bend and so _frustrated_, would only stalk out.

Ludwig, feeling somewhat dazed, like he was walking through a constant fog, kept himself at Feliciano's side, even if he still couldn't really come to terms with what was going to happen.

He was as much in denial as Lovino was, although less vociferous about it.

He just tried to convince himself that the doctor was wrong.

Medical misdiagnosis happened all the time.

All the time.

Nights passed.

Ludwig wasn't sleeping so well now, either, spending most of his time feeling sick with worry and staring at the clock.

Footsteps broke the silence of the night.

Feliciano was never still.

Always walking around somewhere, when lying in bed with no result just became too much.

Pacing.

Summer faded into fall.

Ludwig's marks in school were lower than they had ever been. He couldn't focus, and when he was finally in danger of flunking everything completely, he decided to drop out temporarily.

Just until Feliciano was better.

He had to get better.

People didn't die from insomnia.

November.

Over four months now since the first sleepless night.

Feliciano's state began to decline a little more.

The first panic attack—brought on over a dropped glass—had been a terrible blow to Ludwig's delusions, and it had been that day, grabbing Feliciano around the chest and patting him firmly on the back as he struggled to breathe, that he had finally allowed himself, for the first time, to accept it.

He finally admitted it.

Feliciano wasn't going to get better.

He tried to talk to Lovino about it, but was shot down.

Lovino, lips pursed and brow always low, only shook him off and sent him foul looks, spitting angrily, 'You're as stupid as he is!'

The dismay was overwhelming.

He didn't know what to do.

What could he do?

Powerless.

Helpless.

The worst thing, not to be able to overcome something just by the determination and stubbornness and perseverance that he had always prided himself on.

None of those qualities could fix Feliciano.

December.

The sounds of the radio were constant in the living room, as Feliciano, clinging to the last shreds of sanity, blared out opera and tried to follow along, murmuring the words to himself under his breath as Ludwig stood in the corner, watching.

All day long, just opera.

Lovino was visibly irritated, but said nothing, proving himself respectful despite his gruff attitude and declarations of his brother's stupidity.

Every minute, opera.

Maybe it helped Feliciano relax a little and find some kind of meditative state; when he was listening to the music, the constant tapping of his foot was a little less furious.

Ludwig recognized a few songs here and there, _La Mamma Morta, Addio Del Passato, Canzonetta Sull'aria_, mostly Italian pieces, sometimes German, sometimes French.

It didn't matter.

He wasn't even sure, sometimes, that Feliciano really heard it.

When he wasn't sitting on the couch and holding his hair in his hands, he was up and pacing.

Feliciano always paced.

In the kitchen, back and forth, they could see him from the living room, every day.

Pacing back and forth, back and forth.

Always.

A constant loop.

Chewing his thumbnail and breathing strangely and bumping into the table at intervals.

Lovino would quickly turn his gaze back to the television, drawing his knees up and flipping angrily through the channels and shaking his head.

Ludwig never argued with him anymore.

He was too disheartened, and when they did occur, the arguments were no longer friendly; Lovino aimed for the throat now, with every intention to really wound, and sometimes he lashed out physically now, too.

A simple spat over whose turn it was to drive Feliciano to the doctor had resulted in a black eye for Ludwig.

Nothing was the same.

Close to Christmas.

Ludwig tried to put on a brave face, if only for Feliciano's sake.

He put up the tree and hung the lights as Feliciano, on the couch, directed him to, no matter how high he needed to climb.

Feliciano never painted anymore. The canvas sat unused in the corner.

Lovino hardly came downstairs now.

He didn't speak with Feliciano unless it was to berate.

Ludwig couldn't bring himself to be angry with him.

Lovino might have been handling it badly, but who could blame him?

Sometimes, Ludwig just wanted to lose his composure too.

It was hard to keep it steady at times.

Times like now.

It was sleeting outside.

He lied there on the floor in front of the couch, legs spread out straight, and in between them sat Feliciano, leaning back against Ludwig's chest and pressing the back of his head into the offered shoulder. Ludwig, in a desperate attempt to just bring on some sleep, ran absent fingers through Feliciano's hair in strong, straight motions that a mother might use.

So _long_ now without sleep.

Five months without hearing Feliciano describe with eagerness his dreams.

He tried to instill some kind of relaxation.

But it didn't really help like he wanted it to.

Feliciano babbled lowly under his breath, his words disjointed and confusing and barely making sense, carrying on even though Ludwig remained silent and still.

"We'll go to Rome next summer. Like it there. Grandpa lives there, you know. He always snores so loud... We'll go play in the coliseum. You'd like that, I think..."

And then, head falling back completely, Feliciano's voice died away, and he closed his eyes.

Light breathing.

He was asleep.

But Ludwig knew better than to even feel a stir of hope.

Because, five or six minutes later...

A movement as Feliciano awoke with a start, eyes blinking open and voice carrying on as though there had never been any interruption at all.

"...wouldn't you, Ludovico? My grandpa's gonna be really stuck on you. I know he'll like you."

Despair.

That's all he ever felt now.

Those few fleeting minutes of sleep that came to Feliciano were just a cruel torment; a tease. He couldn't stay asleep long enough to slip into REM, and that was what he needed.

A few minutes of nothing.

Just prolonged agony.

In the kitchen, out of sight and voice strangely thick, Lovino cried, angrily, "Grandpa's _dead_!"

Feliciano only scrunched his brow in thought, but whatever memory he tried to pinpoint just wouldn't come, and finally, his face relaxed and he murmured, "He'll really love you."

_Oh_.

This was too hard.

A shatter of glass from within the kitchen.

Lovino, taking his hurt and frustration out on hapless ceramic mugs.

"I'd like to see Munich and Berlin, afterwards."

Nearly choking, Ludwig finally managed a brave, "We'll go, after I've had my fill of Rome."

Feliciano smiled, grabbing one of Ludwig's hands within his own.

Ludwig looked down, observing Feliciano's hands with a sense of hopelessness.

It was still so hard to accept that soon, these large, gentle hands wouldn't be there anymore to reach out in friendliness and support and playfulness.

Feliciano's hands.

The New Year came again.

He walked Feliciano out onto the porch, but Feliciano's wandering gaze couldn't seem to settle on the fireworks for long before shifting away. His night vision had all but disappeared; a side-effect of no sleep had caused his pupils to be constantly constricted, the black barely even visible, letting no light in.

He bumped into things a lot now.

He barely spoke.

Towards the end of January, Ludwig noticed a new activity.

Sometimes, Feliciano lied down on the couch, head turned down as if staring at something, and his lips were moving, even though no sound was audible.

He reached out with a weak, pale hand, and grasped air.

Ludwig realized that he was hallucinating.

Speaking to someone who wasn't there.

The despair was becoming suffocating.

Ludwig found it increasingly difficult to get out of bed in the mornings, and some part of him _hated _himself for being able to sleep so easily when Feliciano was pacing back and forth down the halls in the dead of night.

He stressed his body by forcing himself to stay awake, trying in some way to sync himself with Feliciano, sitting there with him on the couch and shaking his head constantly just to keep from drifting off.

When he finally succumbed to sleep, awaking later to see Feliciano still wide-awake, the guilt was overwhelming.

But Feliciano only looked over at him, and said, with a ghost of a smile, "Don't make yourself sick, Ludovico."

Everything was guilt.

That what he couldn't fight off was what was killing Feliciano.

That he was healthy and Feliciano was not.

It wasn't fair.

Feliciano, a good person and a brilliant mind and a loyal friend, deserved far more than he had been given, and oh, God, if he had been given the chance somehow Ludwig would have traded places with him in a heartbeat.

He would have done anything.

Anything at all.

But Feliciano only got worse.

And there was nothing he could do.

If it had been cancer, Ludwig would have given marrow. If it had been kidney failure, Ludwig would have given one. If it had been internal bleeding, Ludwig would have given blood.

But how could he give sleep?

Lovino didn't really eat much anymore, picking half-heartedly at food and looking almost as bad as his brother.

It wasn't fair.

February.

The dementia came.

Ludwig didn't realize, at the beginning so long ago, that it would be this _hard_.

He didn't realize that something as simple as a name could cause such hurt.

Because, oh _God_, _oh _God, it hurt more than anything else when Feliciano abruptly cut off conversation one morning to furrow his brow and cradle his forehead, and then turn up exhausted eyes to Ludwig to ask, voice slurred and low, "I'm sorry—what's your name, again?"

It hurt.

He had nearly lost it when he reached out and took Feliciano's hand, barely managing to whisper, "I'm Ludwig."

"Oh, that's right," had come the simple response.

But the next day, Feliciano asked again.

Lovino just couldn't handle it, and took up drinking far more than he used to.

Sometimes, Ludwig joined him.

Being drunk was a little easier.

March.

Feliciano had trouble walking.

A once impressive form became rail-thin.

The doctor wanted to try something different; a last ditch effort.

Chemical coma.

No one held much hope, not even optimistic and confused Feliciano, who had said to Ludwig in a rare moment of clarity before going under, 'If my brain won't sleep, wake me up. Please wake me up, I don't wanna go out hooked up to a goddamn _machine_, wake me up so I can go _home_.'

He promised he would.

Even if some part of him didn't want to, and prolong the misery.

They waited with dreary expectancy, and nobody was really surprised when the doctor just shook his head and said, mostly to himself, 'Still firing. It's all still firing. He's not sleeping.'

Ludwig said, despondently, 'Wake him up.'

Lovino turned to the window and pinched the bridge of his nose, and didn't make a sound.

But Ludwig knew he was crying.

Feliciano was awake the next morning, and Ludwig, returning from the city, brought him a vase of flowers as he came to pick him up.

'Thanks,' was all Feliciano had said, smiling wearily, and Ludwig grabbed his arm, and helped him to his feet.

'They're from Lovino,' he lied, in an attempt to engage absent Lovino in some part of his brother's waning life, but Feliciano, even through his delirium, saw right through him.

'You chose pretty ones.'

He only smiled.

April.

Nine months.

Feliciano lasted nine months.

A cool, windy day in April.

Ludwig woke up to the sound of silence.

No footsteps.

Feeling the numb sense of dread and resignation sliding down his throat, Ludwig had pulled himself out of bed, gasping in a great breath before pushing open his door.

A search of the quiet, still house resulted in everything he had dreaded, and nothing he hadn't expected.

Feliciano, lying on the couch, a cold mug of coffee on the floor beneath him.

Finally asleep.

Ludwig stood there for a moment, frozen in a moment of uncertainty, and thought about waking Lovino.

He decided not to.

And maybe that was for the best, because he only made it two paces forward before he had burst into the tears that he had denied himself for months and staggered back into the kitchen, falling down into a chair and gripping his hair and kicking the table-leg as he clenched his teeth to keep his cries from waking Lovino.

He stayed in the kitchen for hours, pressing his forehead into the kitchen table and sobbing more than he ever knew he could, and he thought he had drained himself dry when he heard footsteps on the stairs.

He fell deathly still.

A creak on the floorboard.

Silence.

A terrible silence.

And when Lovino suddenly shrieked, a horrible, shrill wail of devastation, Ludwig threw his arms above his ears, pushed down the nausea, and cried some more.

The next days passed in a bleary daze.

They let Feliciano's art associates and the church handle all the arrangements.

They didn't know how, and Ludwig was too numb and Lovino too despondent.

They didn't talk much.

Neither of them ate.

The house was too quiet.

Lovino sometimes stared over at the couch, a passing of longing upon his face, but it quickly faded back into indifference, and he would only turn away, and find something to do.

And even though he had spent so many years declaring that he didn't really love Feliciano and most certainly had never _needed _him, the words didn't really matter; Lovino never smiled again.

A few months of awkward silence passed.

Ludwig, sensing that he was no longer welcome, packed up his things and stayed in a cheap motel until he reinstated himself in the university.

Everything he did was half-hearted after that.

He didn't feel like moving at all, but he did anyway.

He couldn't think of a good reason why.

Falling into ruin was tempting.

Still, he slept at night and woke up in the morning, a luxury that he almost wished he didn't have, and sometimes, he stared at the phone, and thought about picking it up.

Just to see how Lovino was doing.

In the end, he only withdrew his hand, and resigned himself to solitude.

That whirlwind friendship had ended.

Vibrancy faded back into the dull monotony that he was used to.

It was hard to let go of it, but there was little else to do.

He couldn't bring himself to go back out into the city and try to smile.

He didn't want new friends.

He wanted the old ones.

He wanted everything to be the way it was before.

Good things never lasted.

Change was inevitable, no matter how he clung to memories.

Every day was a routine.

Crushing boredom. Solitude. Restlessness.

Depression.

He carried on.

Another year.

It was another year before Lovino finally called him on the phone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Footsteps**

'Long time, no see. You still a stupid son of a bitch?'

The first words Lovino had uttered to him the very first time they had seen each other since then.

'I guess so, since you're still a loud jackass.'

Lovino hadn't smiled then, not like he would have before, and merely tucked hands in his pockets and said, quickly, 'I'm goin' for lunch. You can tag along if you want.'

He had.

That was as much as an invitation as Lovino would ever give, anyway.

So, they had gone for lunch at a tiny little restaurant, and even though Lovino hadn't said but two or three words to him over the course of hours, it hadn't much mattered; his heart had been soaring the entire time.

Even Lovino's refusal to meet his eyes had not been enough to wipe the smile from his face.

Being with someone he knew after so long alone...

What a rush.

Afterwards, as they had walked silently down the breezy streets, glancing at each other on occasion but not speaking, they came to the crossroads where they would part ways, and Ludwig remembered clearly the strange look on Lovino's face as he had said, lowly, 'I was right, you're still a dumb son of a bitch.'

Ludwig had only smiled, and said, 'I missed you, too.'

Lovino sent him a foul look, and stalked off.

But the next night, the phone had rang all the same.

And when he had met Lovino in front of that old bar, that shoddy little place so full of good times, it had been all but impossible to come down off the cloud he was on.

They drank, just like they had before, and they argued, just like they had before. It was a little harder without that third presence that should have been there, and sometimes Ludwig caught himself looking over his shoulder whenever a drunken patron burst into laughter in the corner.

Just in case.

Whatever he had expected to see was never there, and he quickly turned straight ahead when Lovino looked over.

It wasn't like before, but it was still a great feeling to sit next to Lovino and not feel so fuckin' miserable.

Every night that Lovino called him, his mood improved a bit.

And so did Lovino's.

He could see it, in a slight lifting of his brow and a lessening of the constant frown, and even though Lovino never laughed and never reached out to place a warm, friendly hand on his back like Feliciano had, it was alright.

It was like the first wonderful whirlwind all over again.

Maybe Lovino was a little harsher to stomach on his own than Feliciano had been, and maybe this Lovino was different than the one he'd known before, but it didn't really matter.

Ludwig still called him friend.

And the memories attached were hard to let go of.

To see Lovino was to see Feliciano.

However vaguely and no matter how hard Lovino tried to set himself apart.

He accepted Lovino's cruel tongue and mood swings because he could understand them, and as long as Lovino hung around him, for either loneliness or a desperate attempt to cling to whatever memories of Feliciano lingered, it didn't matter.

Ludwig was _glad _to call him 'friend', even if Lovino would keel over before he said it.

There was absolutely no talk of Feliciano; not even a swift mention of his name.

And not just because Lovino refused to talk about it.

In all honesty, _he _didn't much feel like talking about it, either, and without actually being inside the house, it was very easy to repress it all and just pretend that Feliciano was sitting at home.

Painting, maybe.

For once, he was grateful for Lovino's moody silence.

He wasn't ready to address any of _that_.

Not that. Not yet.

Easier to pretend it had never happened.

Another year passed since Lovino had first called him, in nights of drunken bar crawls and love/hate spats, before Lovino finally told him, in not so many words, that it would be 'alright' if he wanted to come and stay in the house again.

If he felt like it.

Ludwig took it more as, 'I don't want to live alone'.

And he didn't want to be alone anymore, either.

So, he went.

Even though it was harder than anything else to step through that threshold again, and he pitied Lovino, spending every day in this house alone with only photos and paintings from a man long-since gone.

Not forgotten though, and the first step he had taken through the door was like a punch in the gut.

An inconvenience to his delusions, because it had been painfully obvious that he could no longer pretend that Feliciano was just sitting at home painting; no one was here.

A dry throat and feeling of moroseness had accompanied him inside the first day.

That old couch.

Canvas in the corner.

Lovino didn't need to know that he had spent the first few nights crying himself to sleep.

Maybe Lovino did that too.

It was a little strange, and a little sad, to sit in the kitchen with Lovino in the mornings and sip coffee like nothing weird had ever happened.

Lovino sat his chair as close to Ludwig's as possible without actually risking physical contact, and it had been then that Ludwig had realized that he was only being used as a surrogate for Feliciano.

And he was alright with that.

If that was what Lovino needed, then so be it.

He'd fill the void as best he could.

They'd done more for him.

The first few weeks were the worst, rounding every corner and just expecting to see Feliciano there like he always had been before.

_Knowing _that he'd walk into the foyer and there he'd be.

He never was.

But Ludwig was quick to focus his mind on something else, refusing to dwell on it and make himself sick.

To keep his mind from Feliciano, he devoted all of his time to Lovino, who may or may not have appreciated it.

Sometimes, it was hard to tell.

Lovino's tongue was just as harsh when he was happy (maybe that was a strong word) as when he was cranky.

But, they carried on as best they could.

Life regained some kind of normalcy, and the first Christmas back in the house had been as brightly lit as all the others ones.

Not so many presents, though.

Lovino was quick to tell him, the very next day, to 'get all of that shit down'.

He did, reluctantly and a bit disheartened.

The decorations had always lasted until mid-January before.

But, he couldn't ever stay angry at Lovino.

Not Lovino, who was really alone now, trying to carry on a lineage and a name that was on the brink of extinction, and who couldn't ever admit when he needed help or when he was lonely.

He could handle Lovino's attitude.

He'd done it before, and he could do it again.

New Year's was a little dreary.

Torrential rain, and too much grappa.

Most days seemed to be like that, now.

Ludwig sat back on the couch most of the time, swirling a glass in his hand and watching Lovino with an observant eye, taking mind of his every move. He sometimes found himself making mental calculations of how much he ate, how much he drank, how long he slept, etc.

Maybe he hung over Lovino a little _too _much.

He didn't mean to, but...

He had ignored Feliciano's symptoms so easily at the beginning.

And there was _always _that voice in the back of his head that wondered, maybe, if he'd made Feliciano go to the doctor after a few days instead of a few weeks, if he'd taken it more seriously at the beginning, if he'd helped out a little more, if he had come to terms with it sooner, then maybe...

Maybe.

Maybe something would have gone differently.

He should have watched Feliciano a little better.

And so he watched Lovino now, just in case.

He would never say the words, not ever, and he wouldn't even _think _it.

_Familial._

_Hereditary genetic condition._

He just watched, because Lovino was depressed, and depression could cause his health to decline.

That was why he watched.

In watching, he noticed little things that Lovino did now that he had never done before.

Instead of the old fifties music that he had loved so much (mafia music, he had teased before), Ludwig noticed that every so often, he would put on one of Feliciano's old opera records, but (of course) only after he had thought that Ludwig was asleep or out of earshot.

Sometimes, he would take a sketchbook into his lap and scribble away with a pencil, brow furrowed and lips pursed, and Ludwig realized in those moments that he had the same look of concentration on his face that had been so easy to like on Feliciano. In the end, Lovino only crumpled the paper up and threw it away with a grumbled curse. Ludwig fished them out when he was gone, and tucked them away in his room. They weren't bad; attempted recreations of Feliciano's paintings.

Lovino berated himself more than he ever had Feliciano.

Months passed.

Every day was a little easier.

Once, Lovino had almost smiled.

Almost.

Ludwig was, for once, optimistic. Lovino was a pretty good reason to get out of bed in the morning.

Feliciano was just _away_, so he kept the canvas and the stand dutifully dusted and the paintings in the same place that Feliciano had left them.

Thinking like that made life go on a little more simply.

Even though he knew he was fooling himself.

There was never any mention between them of ever visiting a cemetery, and he was glad for it; he wouldn't have gone.

There was nothing there, anyway.

Why open wounds that were finally starting to heal? He wasn't going to buy pretty flowers to leave atop a patch of grass, and he wasn't about to put himself in a position where he would possibly dissolve into pitiful tears in front of strangers, or, worse, Lovino.

He wouldn't go there.

Life went on.

Months passed.

Everything was smooth, all things considered, expect for one hitch in the road that caught him off guard.

In the spring, he had a terrible moment of heart-stopping anxiety.

One morning, he woke up, and Lovino was already in the kitchen.

It was amazing, how such a simple thing had made him fall against the wall and reach up to clench his collar as air suddenly stopped, and he had been on the very verge of a panic attack when he had managed to ask, weakly, 'Say, why are you up so early?'

Lovino had sent him a look of agitation, and merely snipped, 'I woke up early. So what?'

So _what_?

He couldn't breathe, and spent the entire day hovering over Lovino far more than he needed to, even as Lovino reached out to swat him away like an annoying fly.

But as the sun fell, Lovino fell asleep on the couch in the middle of a light argument, and before long, was snoring away.

Ludwig waited, heart racing.

But minutes passed and then an hour, and Lovino's eyes began to twitch behind his eyes as he started to dream, and Ludwig had heaved a great sigh, and buried his face in his hands.

False alarm.

He was overreacting.

Paranoid.

The next day, Lovino was still conked out on the couch when he woke up.

The best thing he could have ever hoped to see.

He spent that entire day laughing and smiling and Lovino, seeing his uncharacteristically good mood, had only sent him looks of irritation. Ludwig had responded by taking him out to the theatre, arm slung firmly around Lovino's shoulders despite his bitching and shoving.

Oh, what a relief!

Another year passed.

School had ended long ago, but he hung around.

He and Lovino had formed a sort of symbiotic relationship, for all its ups and downs and for all of Lovino's abrasiveness, and he couldn't really ever bring himself to leave.

Lovino needed him.

Even if he would go to his grave denying it.

By now, he considered everything 'safe', and started to worry a little less.

Things were good.

On the day that would have been Feliciano's twenty-eighth birthday and was Lovino's thirtieth, Ludwig tried to keep the mood a bit light by teasing Lovino for rolling over the hill.

Lovino, foul and moody, hadn't really appreciated the joke.

That night, after healthy amounts of wine, they sat together on the couch, and for a dreamy moment, it almost felt like it always had. Warm and friendly and homey.

Lovino must have felt the same; after that, they sat together on the couch every night, just like before.

Maybe a little _too _much like before.

On the nights when he'd had a little too much to drink, sometimes he heard things.

Footsteps.

Sometimes he looked up, sitting alone on the couch in dim light at midnight, and saw him.

Feliciano, pacing back and forth in the kitchen.

Back and forth.

Over and over and over and over again.

It took a minute for his mind to accept the awful truth, and when he squinted his eyes, it was never Feliciano pacing.

It was just Lovino, searching for more alcohol or slumping over the stove, stirring a pot half-heartedly.

Not Feliciano.

Feliciano was gone.

Lovino remained.

And yet sometimes when he and Lovino sat together on the couch, when they'd _both _had a few too many, Ludwig would cast bleary eyes to the side, and some part of his heart absolutely and devotedly expected Feliciano to be sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of them, bottle in hand and smiling, joining in their conversation and always laughing.

A second of blurry searching.

No one was there.

It still hurt too much to remember, even after years, so, when he was further down the road of intoxication, he would lift his chin bravely, and convince himself, like he always did, that Feliciano was just 'out'. He would come back.

Someday.

Maybe it was silly, and maybe it did more harm than good, but it was easier to pretend.

For now, he would wait.

He wasn't alone.

Sometimes when he glanced over, it was to see Lovino twisted at the waist, clenching a glass in one hand and propping his head up on the top of the couch with the other, staring off listlessly into the kitchen.

His eyes moved back and forth. Back and forth.

Ludwig glanced.

Nothing there.

But he knew what Lovino saw.

He saw it, too, sometimes.

When rain fell and night overtook the sun, it was easy to look over at the empty canvas and remember the look of concentration upon Feliciano's face as he had painted away.

Peering above to look at Ludwig, a smile on his face.

_Can I paint you today?_

_Not today._

...shoulda let him.

Regret.

He couldn't imagine what kind of regrets Lovino had.

But, despite the longing and the passing of phantoms and the feeling of something missing, they carried on.

Sometimes Lovino, inebriated, would roam up and down the halls in a mimic of his brother.

Footsteps creaking on the floorboards.

Ludwig watched him, and didn't say a word.

He didn't need to.

He understood Lovino.

They'd be fine, in time.

Time.

He had thought everything would be _alright _from then on.

He could go on like this.

Just him and Lovino.

Two was enough.

It was alright.

It should have stayed like that.

It shouldn't have changed.

It shouldn't have.

Good things never lasted for him.

He should have known.

Only fools let their guard down.

It came first as an unpleasant squirm in his stomach, the faintest of suspicions, startled from sleep one night by the creak of his door. But it was only Lovino, standing there in the frame, eyes heavy and looking pale.

He would rather have seen an intruder standing there.

Not Lovino.

Not at this hour.

"I can't sleep," he muttered, lowly. "Can I—"

"Sure," Ludwig interrupted, sparing Lovino's pride, and he rolled over onto his side as Lovino crawled in beside of him and pulled up the blanket, as the fan whooshed comfortingly above.

Ludwig tried to sleep.

But he couldn't; Lovino tossed and turned all night.

In the morning, he asked, even though he was afraid to, "Did you sleep last night?"

Lovino only shook his head, stirring his coffee with sloppy movements.

"Bad dreams."

But that was a lie; Lovino hadn't slept at all.

No sleep, no dreams.

But Ludwig didn't call him out on it, and convinced himself that it was just a bad night.

Those happened.

Sometimes people just couldn't _sleep_.

A normal thing. Not a death sentence.

Oh, oh God, not a death sentence.

It would pass.

Lovino had just had a bad night.

He was overreacting.

Panicking over nothing.

Paranoid, again.

Just another false alarm. That was all.

Lovino avoided him for the rest of the day, unable to stand his hovering and constant questions, and retreated into his bedroom, locking the door.

Ludwig left him alone, and spent the day in the kitchen, forcing his hands to keep still as he made dinner, even though they threatened to shake.

Lovino came down to eat, and quickly fled again.

The next morning, Ludwig opened his door with another uncomfortable squirm in his stomach.

An initial relief of no Lovino in the kitchen was shattered; he was outside on the porch, tossing breadcrumbs out to noisy pigeons.

Ludwig didn't join him, because the ashy color of his face might have only made Lovino hostile.

Lovino knew what he was thinking. He denied it loudly and firmly.

The third morning, Ludwig refused to let Lovino have any coffee, just in case it was the caffeine that was disturbing Lovino's sleeping pattern.

He waited, anxiously and feeling ill.

And when the fourth day came, bringing with it a pale Lovino sitting on the couch and watching the television with fixed eyes before the sun even rose, the squirm turned into despair, and he allowed himself, for the first time, to consider the similarities and admit to himself that maybe this genetic mutation had been there in the both of them all along.

Years of pretending and denial shattered.

He didn't want it to be true.

Losing one had been crushing.

Losing both would be absolute devastation.

Lovino wouldn't admit it.

"I'm fine," he spat, quite irritably, whenever Ludwig prodded him, "I've just got a little insomnia. I'll get some sleeping pills."

He did.

And Ludwig watched with hammering heart as nothing happened.

They didn't work.

Six days.

Lovino, tired and cranky and looking white as a sheet, jerked back from his hand when he offered it in solace.

"I'm fine," was the constant response. "It'll pass. I just need stronger pills."

He got some.

Seven days.

The pills didn't work.

Ludwig struggled with the urge to vomit at even _considering _it.

Oh, it couldn't happen again.

Feliciano.

Hadn't Feliciano been enough?

Lovino mixed a pill with alcohol, despite Ludwig's fearful cries not to.

But, despite labored breathing and a heartbeat so slow that it tottered on none at all, no sleep came. He just lied there on the bed, staring dazedly at the ceiling and murmuring to himself as though in a trance, and Ludwig hung above, sometimes pressing his head against Lovino's chest to feel his heart just to make sure that he was alive. He was. Weak and slurred and lethargic, but very much conscious.

He didn't sleep.

Ludwig, flushed with adrenaline and more frustrated than he had ever been in his life, wound up putting a hole through the wall with his foot in a rage, when stubborn, stupid Lovino still wouldn't _admit _it.

He wouldn't say it.

Why wouldn't he _say _it?

Why wouldn't he admit it?

Why wouldn't he start working at it, when he had been given an advantage over Feliciano by knowing so early what it _was_?

Stubborn, thick-headed, immovable, unbending bastard.

If he admitted it and tried, then maybe it wouldn't turn out like it had before.

Maybe it could be delayed.

The eighth day, Lovino sat at the kitchen table, hunched over and holding handfuls of his hair, and God, it was like looking at Feliciano all over again.

It was Feliciano sitting there.

Not Lovino.

That same old feeling of helplessness.

It took every ounce of strength he had not to collapse on the floor in tears.

Too many days.

Too many coincidences.

Too many similarities.

Lovino was going, too.

He could feel it.

He composed himself long enough to sit down at the table, and after a moment of silence, he asked, "Are you ready to go to the doctor?"

Lovino only muttered, "What's the goddamn doctor gonna do? Check my pupils and tell me to start doin' yoga? Ha."

Ludwig's face crumpled.

"Won't you even think about it?"

"I won't go to the doctor. I won't."

Ludwig opened his mouth, and he was about to say, 'well then, _you're _the stupid son of a bitch!', but Lovino beat him to the punch.

Looking up through bleary eyes, the dark circles hanging like veils, Lovino _smiled_.

He smiled.

For the first time in years.

Ludwig could barely hear his voice for how rough and weak it was.

"I won't go to the doctor. I'll fight it my own damn self. I won't go out easy." A defiant headshake. "Not like him."

Shifting his weight and successfully denying himself the desire to burst into tears, Ludwig fell back into his seat, his anger fading as fast as it had come, replaced by despair, and he blinked the moisture from his eyes as he said, "No. I didn't think you would."

Not again.

Not again, not again, not again.

He couldn't do it _again_.

Not again.

A silence hung above them, and then, in a slow, deliberate, and meaningful movement, Lovino reached out, and snatched his hand.

A strange feeling.

The awful look of fear in his eyes was just too much, and when he said, beseechingly, "You stayed with him! Stay with me. Please don't leave me alone," the battle was quickly lost.

Bowing his head and squinting his eyes in a failed effort to regain composure, he dissolved into tears.

_Oh_.

Not _again_.

Not fair.

He tried to fall back into that role of denying himself the slipping of his composure, trying to be strong for Lovino now as he had been for Feliciano.

He failed more now than he had before.

Because he knew, now, what was going to happen.

And there wasn't really any hope to look forward to.

Just a matter of how long stubborn Lovino could fight off the inevitable.

He tried to hide himself in corners and shadows and rooms when the tears came, too proud to show them openly, but sometimes Lovino caught him.

Lovino didn't cry.

Strange that, for once, it was Lovino who was the strong one, and when the tenth day without sleep rolled around, he looked up at Ludwig with weary eyes above breakfast, and sent him a stern look.

"Hey," came the grunt, and Ludwig could only try to meet his gaze past the blur of tears, "What're ya cryin' about? It'll take more than a week to get rid of me."

Ludwig managed to croak a laugh.

Because it would.

Damn jerk would draw it out as long as he could.

Knowing that Lovino was so aggressive about it made it a little bit easier.

And when it finally happened, in weeks or months or maybe years if Lovino stayed so stubborn, then he would be there.

No matter how much it hurt.

He could work past it.

Even though he'd be alone afterwards.

Feliciano had given him a short burst of life, even as he had deteriorated and lost his own.

For all the pain involved, it had been worth it.

He would stay by Lovino's side now, and weather the storm.

Even if he had never in his worst nightmare imagined lightning would strike twice.

Weeks.

Months.

The few minutes of sleep that Lovino did get, the rasping shreds of a lifeline, he lied there with him, propped up on pillows and staring off into space and wringing his hands in his lap as he counted down the days.

Lovino woke up after only a handful of useless minutes, like he always did, and resumed disjointed, confused conversation as though he had never nodded off at all.

But Ludwig was used to that.

Feliciano had done the same thing, picking up exactly where he had left off.

But Lovino kept his wits about him, and in clearer moments learned all he could about the disease, and came up with various techniques to knock himself out, some of which Ludwig did not necessarily condone.

Lovino had gone out one day, and came back with a pocket-full of pills.

'What's that?' he'd asked, a bit warily, and Lovino had only waved a dismissive hand in the air.

'Vicodin.'

Ludwig had only furrowed a concerned brow as Lovino put two of them back quickly, and even though he didn't like the idea of using strong narcotics to stay in a constantly lethargic state, he didn't open his mouth.

If it helped, then, well...

He couldn't very well deny him a little bit of peace.

Months passed.

Lovino didn't go out anymore.

He was too disoriented, and a short walk into town had resulted in complete confusion, and Ludwig, setting out to look for him when he hadn't come home, had found him sitting in the street, knees pulled up to his chest and face buried in his arms.

Lost.

Alone.

Frightened.

It was better for him to stay home, where he would be in a familiar environment.

He wouldn't go to the doctor, and Ludwig didn't even bother to force him.

What had doctors done for Feliciano?

Not a goddamn thing.

The days passed quietly, Lovino not quite as loud from exhaustion and fatigue, and Ludwig made most of the conversation now, trying to keep Lovino engaged and active.

But Lovino surprised him sometimes.

Some days, Lovino acted strange and almost amicable.

Friendly.

"Hey," Lovino said one night, reaching out to grab a handful of Ludwig's shirt as they sat on the porch and watched the city.

Ludwig cast him a look and only murmured, "Hm?"

Lovino smiled, wanly.

"Guess what?"

"What?"

"I've been—since I'm up, I've been studyin' German a little bit."

Ha.

That was...

A shock.

"Oh?" was the only coherent answer he managed, because if he had said anything else, he would have started sniveling.

Lovino just nodded his head.

"Yeah. Y'know, maybe it's not as ugly as I always told you it was."

Ludwig turned his head away in an effort to save face.

It was hard to stay strong in the face of inevitable heartbreak.

Watching the deterioration of a once sharp mind was worse than anything else he could think of.

Once had been bad enough.

Feliciano, smart and chatty.

Lovino, witty and sharp-tongued.

Losing that was worse than any physical deterioration.

Finally, Ludwig gave a laugh that was more of a sob, and asked, thickly, "So, what do you know so far?"

And when Lovino began to prattle off a long train of curses in accented German, Ludwig kept his head turned firmly away so that Lovino wouldn't see how damp his face had become.

Oh, that _jerk_.

Lovino summed up with a faint, "_Neunmalklug_. That's my favorite, I think. I like saying that. Not as mean as the other ones, but that made me think of you. That's what I'm gonna call ya from now on, since you're such a smartass all the time."

He tried to laugh.

He failed.

Lovino reached out and shoved gently at his shoulder, quick to chide.

"Hey, knock it off, won't ya? You act like you're the one who's gonna kick the bucket!"

He _felt_ like he was.

His heart ached all the time.

Constant nausea.

This _waiting_.

Just waiting.

Finally, he only muttered, dismally, "I kinda wish I was."

Lovino had stayed strangely silent.

Time dragged on.

He felt tested, and sometimes he felt defeated.

Sometimes, he wished that the whole thing was over with.

Now when he sat on the couch and drank and heard footsteps, it wasn't a hallucination.

It was Lovino.

Upstairs, pacing around his room.

His fingers twitched a lot, tapping everything they could, much like Feliciano had tapped his foot.

Since Lovino refused to go see a doctor, Ludwig felt it was his duty to try and emulate the actions he had witnessed when he had accompanied Feliciano.

He took a light to Lovino's pupils, always constricted, and tested reflexes and took temperature and monitored heart-rate.

He didn't know why.

What good would it do?

He needed something to do with his hands or else he'd go crazy, and it was reassuring to be able to touch Lovino and know for a fact that he was still _there_.

He couldn't reach out and feel Feliciano anymore, and by God, he'd make the best of whatever time he had left with Lovino.

He didn't want to go through that same old cycle of regrets and 'what if's.

Lovino didn't mind his prodding and poking anymore, and maybe he needed it as much as Ludwig did, if only to know that he wasn't alone.

Lovino said strange things, sometimes.

"You know," Lovino said to him one day, as they sat together on the porch and as Ludwig rubbed strong fingers over Lovino's temples in an effort to calm, "you'd make a really good doctor."

Peering up a bit, his own eyes feeling as weary as Lovino's looked, Ludwig snorted and, for a minute, he smiled.

"You think?"

Without looking at him, Lovino gave a quick, "Yeah."

A short silence.

"You're really patient...you know? Gentle hands."

And even though he knew that it was just the exhaustion and strange thoughts that were making Lovino say such things, he couldn't help but feel a little bit of adoration as he asked, teasingly, "Are you complimenting me?"

He expected a quick, sharp, 'No!', but it didn't come.

Instead, Lovino finally looked to meet his gaze, and the flush on his pale cheeks was visible.

Finally, a grumbled, "Yeah. I guess I am."

Ludwig was too stunned to speak, smiling breathlessly, and Lovino just turned away to stare off back into space.

"I know why Feliciano liked you so much. I'm glad... I'm glad we met each other. I'm glad you stayed. I'm glad you're still here."

"I'll always be here. As long as it takes."

Lovino's brow came down, thoughtfully, as Ludwig moved hands from his temples down to one of the frequent, compulsive checking of the pulse in Lovino's wrist that he found himself doing every few hours or so.

Just in case.

Lovino stared down at his fingers, and nearly smiled then, a calm look upon his face.

"You should really be a doctor. That's what I think. Any schmuck can piece a rocket together. Not everyone can be patient with people like _me_."

Ludwig didn't look up at him, and didn't speak.

Concentrating on Lovino's racing pulse was really the only way of keeping the water out of his eyes.

Days of misery.

Lovino's moods were unpredictable.

Sometimes foul.

Sometimes despondent.

And sometimes, when he looked at Lovino, there was only Feliciano.

Gentle-eyed, shoulders low and brow high, unguarded and approachable, and was in those moments that Ludwig realized that, behind the loud mouth and the abrasive attitude and the false bravado and the mental instability, that Lovino really did have the soul of his brother.

He just hid it well.

Lovino just hurt all the time, so he tried to make others hurt, too.

Ludwig would always remember the way Lovino looked when he smiled in moments of vulnerability.

As easy to love as Feliciano's face of concentration.

But, just like with Feliciano, those moments had faded far too quickly.

Too quickly.

Things went downhill too quickly.

Where Feliciano had spoken of his grandfather, Lovino, in confusion, sometimes asked about his brother.

Feliciano.

Where was Feliciano?

Why wasn't he here?

Ludwig had no answer, and tried to divert conversation in different directions.

Too much.

The worst part of him was almost _glad _when the dementia came, because he knew that it meant the beginning of the end, and he was _tired_, and so was Lovino, and _Christ_, it was awful to say but he was ready for Lovino to just go to sleep.

Seeing Lovino like this was too much.

Little things went first.

Lovino couldn't remember which cabinet held the glasses.

Sometimes he put something down, and promptly failed to relocate it, even when he was standing right in front of it.

And when Lovino looked over at him one morning above coffee and couldn't remember his name, his heart broke all over again.

He was used to being forgotten by others.

But being forgotten by the two brothers was unbearable.

The two who had loved him.

And now, instead of being introduced by others as, 'and that's just Ludwig,' it was he who had to reach out and say, 'I'm Ludwig'.

It was hard.

But Lovino never admitted defeat, never willing to resign himself so quietly as Feliciano had, never able to go gently and without a fight.

The strong never fell.

Lovino's pride kept him alive long after his body had given up.

Ludwig lied awake at night, staring at the ceiling.

Footsteps above.

Lovino pacing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, clenching his hair in his hands and dry sobbing as he muttered to himself incoherently, and always pacing. Pacing. Always pacing.

Every night.

Ludwig just stared up and waited.

Seconds.

Minutes.

Hours.

Days.

Weeks.

Months.

Years.

Pacing.

Lovino lasted far longer than Feliciano had.

Nearly two years.

Two years of footsteps from above.

'Hey. Tell Feliciano I don't really blame him for mom and dad. He'll listen to you. He likes you so much.'

'I'll tell him. Promise.'

'I'm glad. ...say, you look so familiar. Do we know each other?'

'...yeah. We're best friends. I'm Ludwig.'

'Ludwig? ...I wish I had a pretty name like that.'

The last coherent words Lovino ever uttered.

After, the rest was all incomprehensible muttering.

And when Lovino was gone and Ludwig, thinner and exhausted and pushing on again through the dark, left Italy behind after over eight years, it didn't matter.

Even when he was back home in Germany, even when his brother snored so loudly from the room across the hall, he could still hear it.

Footsteps.

Every night.

Up in the attic.

He stared at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head, and stayed awake as long as he could.

Gilbert asked him, sometimes, what he had done out there in Italy, and why he had stayed out there so fuckin' long.

He only shrugged a shoulder.

What could he say? He would never speak of such things aloud. Feliciano and Lovino were only for him to shoulder; Gilbert didn't need to know about any of it.

Not speaking about it was just another form of denial, because if he didn't _speak _about it, then some part of him could pretend that the two brothers were alive and well in Italy, chatting amongst themselves and going out in town like they always had, and were still laughing. Still fighting. Still _together_.

The house was probably already on the market, its furnishings and paintings being auctioned to the winds.

He took only one painting home with him, and hung it in the living room.

Gilbert tilted his head, and asked, 'What's that?'

Hands on hips, he'd responded, thoughtfully, 'Nero's Rome on fire.'

'Oh. Pretty cool!'

It didn't matter if the house was sold and its paintings spread across Italy.

In his memory, it still looked the same.

Nothing changed.

Lovino's cast-aside drawings were safe in a folder, and Feliciano's painting hung up on high.

All he needed.

Gilbert asked him one morning over coffee, voice proud and adoring, 'So, how long before you're workin' for ESA? So I can go ahead and buy a nice townhouse in Paris.'

Ludwig, chin in palm and staring off into the distance, only said, dreamily, 'ESA? ...nah. I think I'm over space. I think I'm going to be a doctor now. Neurologist.'

Gilbert, nearly dropping his coffee in shock, managed to sputter, 'B-but you spent all that _time_! You're kiddin', right? Wha—what made you change your mind? All you ever talked about was rockets!'

Neatly deflecting, Ludwig only sent him a stern look and said, 'You change your mind all the time! Why can't I?'

'But, oh man... I don't get you, I really don't.'

Airily, he waved his hand and said, with a smile, 'Hey, any schmuck can weld together a rocket. Not everyone can be patient with people like _you_.'

Gilbert, bewildered and looking a little disappointed, pursed his lips and stayed silent.

Maybe Gilbert's dreams of space and glory had been tied into his own, but Gilbert would get over it in time.

He didn't need to know _why_.

No one needed to know.

Pretending was easier.

Gilbert didn't hear noises in the attic at night.

He stayed silent, and carried on.

Life went on.

New days, new places.

He'd go new places.

But he would never return to Italy.

He didn't need to.

At night, Italy came back to him, if only in the memories of a weary mind.

Footsteps.


End file.
